


Of Coffee and Kids

by Glare



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: A lot of coffee drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Single Parents!AU, Tag As I Go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-03-26 14:31:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3854206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glare/pseuds/Glare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver Queen is certain that his day can't get any worse after Moira insists that he attends an open house at his son's school.<br/>Then he spills coffee all over a perfectly attractive stranger, who happens to be the father of his son's best friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'd told myself that I wouldn't start this up until I'd finished In His Eyes, but I also told myself I'd put something up today. I just got out of Age of Ultron and am too exhausted to finish writing up the next chapter of that right now, but I had a few chapters of this done already so I guess I'm starting it early.  
> Unbeta'd. Criticism always welcome. Comments & Kudos are appreciated.  
> Hope you enjoy!

Oliver Queen had not yet adjusted to the trials and tribulations that came with the life of a single parent. Hell, Oliver Queen hadn’t even known he was a parent until he came home from his five years a castaway on Lian Yu. It had been quite a shock, to say the least, to discover that not only was he the father to one Connor Hawke, but that the boy’s mother had recently been killed in a car accident, leaving Queen as the boy’s sole guardian.

That was how he found himself awake one early Sunday morning listening to Connor babble on about the pros and cons of wearing a Power Rangers Versus a transformers shirt to the open house they’d been invited to attend at the six year-old’s new school. Oliver wasn’t thrilled at the prospect about spending an afternoon rubbing shoulders with other parents, listening to them brag about the “achievements” of children too young to comprehend more than simple math and spelling. If it were up to him, Connor would have come down with some convenient illness and they would have spent the day doing quite literally anything else. Connor had mentioned before wanting to visit the zoo in Central City.

Unfortunately, the decision was taken from his hands by Moira, who insisted that gatherings such as these were an important part of Connor’s social development. For having shoved the boy’s existence under a rug for nearly seven years, Moira seemed to have quite a lot to say on how Oliver raised his son. He selects a nice looking suit jacket as Connor finally settles on the Transformers shirt, tugging it over his head and ruffling the mousy brown hair Oliver had only just managed to tame a few minutes prior. They meet Moira and a ruffled-looking Thea in the foyer, the latter apparently just as unenthusiastic about the affair as her brother, and pile into the waiting car at half past ten.

The ride is silent, save for Connor’s talking. When he’s first arrived in the Queen home, Oliver had struggled to get more than a sentence out of the boy at a time. Once he’d settled in, though, it had become impossible to make him stop. The subject of the latest monologue had turned to kids he hoped to spend time with during the event. Namely Joe, a recent transfer to the class. Connor had taken quite quickly to the mute boy, often returning home from school with tales of their adventures. Oliver couldn’t help but feel relieved that his son wasn’t having a hard time making friends.

Connor flees their presence as soon as he’s able, vanishing into the crowd of kids to locate his companions. Moira and Thea likewise disappear, Thea spotting a classmate and Moira being led away by small group of chattering parents, leaving Oliver alone in the chaos. He pushes his way through the sea of bodies and tries not to flinch away from the companionable claps on the back a few parents give him in passing, muttering apologies he doesn’t really mean as he makes his way towards a table that seems to be the source of the hot coffee most of the adults are carrying around. 

Amidst the chatter of parents and excited squeals of children, Oliver hadn’t even heard the man approach. He spins on the spot, intending to find as isolated a chair as possible in the crowded gymnasium in which to nurse the lukewarm coffee he’d collected from a refreshments table, and instead runs headlong into a solid chest. The murky concoction spills over the rim of his cup in the impact, staining the stranger’s impeccably white dress shirt. The man’s huff of surprise echoes Oliver’s own, and Oliver struggles to drag his eyes from where they’ve fixed on the small puddle of coffee that’s formed at their feet.

“I’m so sorry,” he starts over the din of the room, before he finally gets a good look at the man.

Oliver’s breathe catches in his throat, the rest of the apology forgotten in favor of eyeing his victim. Dark eyes, dark hair that’s just greying at the temples, tanned skin, and Oliver is certain that the man is well built under his ruined dress shirt. He’s certain his heart has just skipped a few beats.

“No, I’m sorry,” The man says smoothly, eyes flickering up from where he dabs hopelessly at the dark stain that mars the fabric with one of the flimsy napkins that have been supplied, “I shouldn’t have been standing so close.” 

With a disgruntled sigh, the man appears to give up on any chance of salvaging the shirt, choosing instead to button the black suit jacket up far enough to hide the offending stain. Oliver shuffles awkwardly back and forth, trying not to feel too cowed when the man’s sharp gaze returns to him.

“Slade Wilson,” he says as he steps around Oliver, picking up another two cups of coffee. Slade offers him a congenial smile and one of the cups, following with a sweeping hand in a motion that Oliver interprets as an invitation to walk with him. They step away from the refreshments table, Oliver gripping the cup more tightly than is perhaps necessary, directed by a hand that has settled at the small of his back. 

“Oliver Queen,” he returns, settling into the chair Wilson offers him at an empty table. Wilson takes the one beside it. “I really am so sorry-”

“Don’t worry about it, Kid.” Wilson huffs. “I’ve got a dozen more. Besides, you looked like you were miserable enough without adding the guilt of ruining my shirt. Not a fan of these things?”

“Is there anyone that actually enjoys them?” Oliver scoffs, nursing his drink. Wilson laughs, a deep rumble that sends shivers down his spine. “Which one’s yours?” He asks, gesturing to the group of kids that mills about the room. 

“Joe. The little one in the leather jacket.”

Oliver’s can feel the heat of a blush rising up against his cheeks when he finally spots the boy in question. He’s practically a carbon-copy of his father, dark hair and eyes and tanned skin. And he’s hanging off of Connor’s arm, following the taller brunette around as Connor makes his various social calls to the other kids in his class. Mortification clouds Oliver’s mind, and he barely manages to spit out a response when Wilson asks him which kid is his. He’d not only spilled coffee on a very attractive stranger, said man happened to be the father of his son’s best friend.

A hand on his shoulder starts him out of his thoughts. Moira stand over him, apparently having broken away from the group she’d been fraternizing with since they’d arrived. She smiles politely at Wilson, who gives her one in return.

“We’re about to get started. We should go find Thea,” she says to him, gaze flickering over the room before she steps away. Oliver moves to follow, pushing himself up with a hand on the table, but a firm grip on his wrist stills any further movement. He turns to look at Wilson, who’s staring at him indecipherably. 

“I didn’t give you my card,” the other man says softly, fishing in his pockets with his free hand, releasing Oliver’s wrist when he offers the small piece of white cardstock. “In case Connor wants to arrange some sort of play date,” Is added as an almost afterthought.

“Of course,” Oliver stutters, feeling the blush in his cheeks worsen as he tucks the piece of paper into the inside pocket of his coat before offering Wilson his own. “Thanks.”

Oliver is almost certain he can feel Wilson’s eyes on him the entire time he walks away.


	2. Chapter 2

As it turns out, vigilantism on a single dad’s schedule is pretty difficult. Oliver has to be around to put Conner to bed at night and be there to wake him for school in the morning, slipping out of the house only in the hours between. He’s thankful that the boy isn’t plagued by the nightmares that children his age are prone to, because if he wandered into Oliver’s room in search of his father, he probably wouldn’t find him. It doesn’t help matters when his mother hires a bodyguard, a war veteran named John Diggle, after he and Tommy are lifted off the streets by armed kidnappers. Diggle’s presence makes it even harder to get away unnoticed. Progress on the List is agonizingly slow going.

Adam Hunt is the first to fall. Oliver dispatches his men with ease, reveling in the way his blood sings in his veins. For the first time since he’s been home, he truly feels in his element. Forty million dollars is returned to its rightful owners, even though he has to humiliate Detective Lance to get away with it. He reminds himself that the mission comes first and that he’s going to be doing good, but it doesn’t assuage the guilt he feels. Oliver bears the weight of Lance’s harsh accusations and hopes that it’s good enough. It’s the closest thing to an apology he can manage.

Next comes Martin Somer, a crook with ties to the Chinese Triad. Somers, too, fails to heed his warnings—believes himself above the Vigilante’s threats. Then he does the unthinkable, and goes after Laurel.

Oliver hadn’t planned to find himself at Laurel’s doorstep, a gallon of mint chip held in one arm and his son in the other. But after Moira and Walter tried to spring the company on him and Thea chewed him after seeing his scars, he needed to spend some time away from the house. Connor had been more than happy to accompany him with the promise of ice cream.

Their conversation is jilted and awkward at first, blame and too much time apart making their once easy comradery rough around the edges. Having Connor there helps, his presence keeping Laurel from sharing the less savory thoughts potentially on her mind. Things do settle down, though, the words starting to flow with ease by the time Oliver explains his conflict with Moira about the company. As always, Laurel has good advice—she’s well versed in the world of disapproving parents.

Connor has fallen asleep in Oliver’s lap, a half-eaten bowl of ice cream hanging precariously in his grip, when Oliver hears it. Footsteps on the fire escape. He takes the bowl and scoops Connor up in one arm, grabbing a kitchen knife that lay nearby with his free hand. He urges Laurel to follow when the window shatters, a gunman making his way into the apartment, but the door is kicked in when they reach it and they’re forced to retreat further into the house.

Oliver stands between Chin Nao Wei and Laurel, who had taken the crying Connor from him somewhere along the way, and sees the recognition flicker in her eyes. It doesn’t matter that he’s got nicer clothes and a haircut, he’s still Oliver Queen. He’s still spent too much time in her presence, foiled too many of her plans, for her to not recognize him.

“ _I thought the bioweapon killed you in Hong Kong_ ,” she says in Mandarin instead of English. Small mercies. “ _I’m glad it didn’t. Now I have the chance to pay you back for your meddling_.”

Diggle choses that moment to arrive, taking out the gunmen and launching himself at China. He’s outmatched in that fight, and Oliver desperately searches for the right angle at which to launch his knife. He finally finds it, right as China is raising her own to deliver a killing blow. The blade is knocked from her hand, and she flees out the shattered window right before the police arrive. Which unfortunately leads to another awkward confrontation with the Detective. Oliver doesn’t rise to the man’s baiting, just takes his son from Laurel and goes. Later Diggle will thank him for the knife, and he’ll tell some weak lie that only raises the man’s suspicions, but when Connor finally falls asleep, he sneaks out of the house to deal with Somers all the same.

Slade Wilson doesn’t hate his job, not really. It pays well and he’s good at it, so he can’t really complain about that. What he hates is the traveling that comes along with it. This is the third time in as many years that the family has been forced to relocate in the name of Slade’s employment. Rose doesn’t mind—she’s a social butterfly that could probably make friends with rocks should the situation call for it—and Grant is already out of school, but Joe struggled when it came to socialization. He considered it fortunate that it looked like they would be in Starling for a while, as his son had warmed up to the Queen boy startlingly fast.

He’d been begging to have the kid over since he discovered that his father had met Connor’s at the open house. It wasn’t that Slade didn’t want to play host, but having another child in the home would mean a night indoors, and he rarely got a night off. Things had been calm here lately, though, so maybe he could get away with asking his employer for some time away…

His introspection is shattered when he hears sirens wailing, sees the flashing red and blue of police lights as they draw down toward the docks. He secures the orange and black mask over his face and slips into the shadows to see what the commotion is all about.  
It’s coming from Somers side of the docks. It’s not the territory he usually guards, or cares about for that matter, but having the police sniffing around could throw a wrench in his employer’s plans. From his place atop a stack of shipping containers, he watches two figures flee. White-haired woman and a man in a dark hood. The police follow not far behind, the woman successfully slipping away, but the man is caught by one of the pursuing officers. Instead of killing the man like any decent, law-breaking criminal might, the hooded figure knocks the weapon from the officer’s hands and uses the surprise as cover to flee, leaving the officer alone in the maze of containers.

Slade had heard rumors of a mysterious vigilante that had shown up in the recent weeks. Supposedly, the man had saved Oliver Queen and his friend from a kidnapping attempt and terrorized Adam Hunt, as well as busting a number of small criminals in between. Rumor was, he was dangerous, one hell of a good shot, and unafraid to kill. To Slade, he was the reason he’d been able to remain in Starling after his last job was complete. The vigilante made people with money scared, and they more than happy to line Slade’s pocket in return for keeping them and their valuables safe from things that scared them. It was a pleasant surprise to finally set eyes on the man after weeks of nothing but rumors. He’d have to report the sighting to his superiors, but from the looks of things, the Hood was uninterested in their particular wrongdoings.

He hoped it wouldn’t jeopardize his chance for a weekend off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Am I the only one driven up the wall by the fact that China & Oliver have this mysterious past and all of S1/s2 they interact like strangers?  
> I lied, there will be some season 1 in here. Turns out, you can't really write a "returning from the island" fic without everything that comes with returning from the island. I've got the plot roughly mapped out to just over 20 chapters. Lord rest my soul. You've probably noticed the writing for Conner is really weird. I'm still working on how I write for him. It will improve, I promise. Give me time.
> 
> Once again, thanks for reading!


	3. Flashbacks Pt 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be completely honest, you can probably skip this chapter and not miss anything important. The story really only starts to go AU once Ollie get to the plane, and I probably could have just skipped straight there. By the time I REALIZED that, however, I was already about 90% done with this so here it is anyways. I'll be sure to punch myself in the face before starting the next one.

The lush greenery of the jungle is disorienting. He races through the trees—is he going in circles? He’s almost certain he’d seen that log before—trying to get as far away from the crazy guy with the bow and arrows as he can. The man who’d shot him on the beach and for some reason decided to patch him back up afterwards. Oliver couldn’t help but feel like some sort of strange pet. The man kept him fed and tended to him and it was all pretty weird, so he’d taken the first opportunity he had to flee.

Of course, he doesn’t get far. One minute he’s running and he next his legs are flying out from under him as a coarse black net rips him up into the air, leaving him dangling uselessly while he waits for whoever had set this up to retrieve him. And of course it’s his captor/caretaker that come wandering out of the undergrowth after Ollie’s been hanging there for god knows how long. He gets the breath knocked out of him after he crashes to the ground when the man cuts the rope holding the net aloft. He disappears back into the dense green, and for a moment Oliver considers running again, but then he hears noisy footsteps crashing through the jungle from another direction and decides it best not to linger. Better the devil you know, as they say.

It quickly becomes apparent that this language barrier is going to be the death of him. The man hands him a bird in a cage and keeps repeating that word in whatever language he’s speaking and Oliver has no earthly clue what he wants. He won’t share his food, like he used to do. Just pointed at the cage and said that word again. And when he does finally get the picture, when the man mimes snapping the bird’s neck, Oliver almost wishes he didn’t. He can’t kill! Not even some stupid bird.

Or so he thinks. Hunger claws at him until he can’t take it anymore. He opens the cage whispers a soft apology, and breaks the bird’s neck. His caretaker takes pity on him and doesn’t make him clean the animal himself, but he does make sure Oliver is watching so he can do it himself the next time. Oliver’s sure that now he’s actually killed his own meal, there will more than likely be a next time. And then the guy says something in _English_ and he’s certain that he might just wring that guy’s neck next.

Things are easier once he’s not so dependent on Yao Fei, whose name he learned once they actually started communicating. His English isn’t great, but it’s a hell of a lot better than Ollie’s, well, anything else. He takes Oliver along when he goes out to hunt or to gather the snares. Even lets him shoot the bow he’s always toting around. It might usually seem like a strange weapon to carry, but it fits Fei well and, on the island at least, is plenty useful. Ollie’s arrow goes flying way off course, and Yao Fei sends him after it. He’s only just found it, just went to reach for it, when a pair of black gloves are suddenly in is field of vision, clamping over his mouth. They bind his hands and drag him through the jungle, finally depositing him into some makeshift cage they’ve dug into the earth. Despite his protests, the men in black leave him there.

They’re not gone long. He’s dragged from the cage and marched through the woods until they come across a camp. It was almost exactly like the military camps Oliver had seen in a dozen movies—all tents and trucks and precariously stacked crates. The only thing off was the masks. All of the soldiers wore them. It puts him on edge.

His new captors lead him into one of the tents, paying no mind when they slam his injured shoulder into one of the support poles. When he turns, he spots a man. Same uniform as everyone else, but no mask. He’s seated at a desk and looks like he _knows_ he’s important. Oliver despises him immediately.

“Please, sit.” The man beckons. “You’re making me feel rude.” Oliver does. “I do apologize for my men’s treatment of you. They’re trained so view any stranger as hostile. I’m Edward Fyers, by the way. And you are?”

What he says sounds weak, even to him, but Oliver’s been on this island so long that he’s not above begging. Above trying to bribe this man into taking him back to shore. Fyers doesn’t seem to care about the wealth to be gained from Oliver’s safe return. Instead, he wants to know about Yao Fei. For a moment, Oliver’s tempted to tell him. Tempted to trade the information for a way off this island. But something is whispering in his ear that there is something _wrong_ about this whole situation, and instead a litany of lies comes spilling from his lips. Fyers sees right though them, he’s an intelligent man, and Ollie soon finds himself tied to the support pole they’d thrown him against earlier, one of Fyers’ nameless, black-masked lackeys taking a knife to his skin.

He’s not sure how long he’s stuck there, watching them paint his torso red. He’s seen torture in movies. He knows that they expect him to break, like all those other weak men, but something in Oliver digs its heels in. The stubbornness once cursed by those closest to him keeps his jaws clamped tight despite the agony he’s in. Every time they cut another crimson line across his stomach, every time he doesn’t tell them anything, begins to feel like a victory. In time they stop, and Fyers is talking but he’s not really listening. He just glares at the man who’s done this to him.

With the _woosh_ of an arrow Yao Fei is there. Fighting for him. Fighting to free him. And everything in him is screaming that it was _worth it_. He’d suffered to keep this man free, and in return Yao Fei had come to save him. The man drags him from the camp, dumps him in the cave, compliments his will. And when he moves to leave, Oliver panics. Doesn’t want to leave his caretaker alone when those men are after him. But before he can make it to the entrance of the cave, a cascade of earth and stone seals him in.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The enormous wait on this chapter was because I have no idea what I'm doing.

Connor is practically vibrating with excitement where he walks at Oliver’s side.

“Are you sure this is the right house?” the boy asks for the hundredth time. The address scrawled sloppily on a piece of scrap paper matches the string of numbers on the front door, and Oliver reassures him once again that yes, this is the right place.

The Wilson’s house isn’t quite what Oliver expected. It’s average—homely even. Nothing compared to the ostentatious homes of Connor’s other friends. Extravagant manors often came with attendance at the private academy Moira had insisted Connor be enrolled, so the two-story townhouse was a pleasant change of pace. Since returning from the island, Oliver no longer felt any appreciation for the sprawling estates. They were grandiose and served little function other than to flaunt their owner’s wealth.

“Can I ring the doorbell?” Connor asks when they reach the stoop, waiting for Oliver’s nod of ascent before stretching up on his toes to reach.

Oliver can hear movement from the house after the pleasant chime, and it’s only a moment before the door is pulled open. Wilson’s dressed down from the expensive suit he’d been wearing during their meeting at the Open House. Instead, he’s dressed in loose, black cargo pants and a grey tee shirt. He flashes the duo a crooked grin and makes to greet them when Joe squirms out the door around his legs, grabbing Connor’s arm and eliciting an enthusiastic squeal from the taller boy when he’s dragged into the house. Both parents laugh at the sight.

“Would you like to come in for a bit?” Wilson asks. “I’ve got coffee, long as you promise not to spill it on me,” is adding teasingly.

Oliver can feel his cheeks heat up at the reminder of their unfortunate first encounter, and Wilson’s wearing an expression that reveals he’s perhaps a bit too pleased about instigating such a reaction.

“Promise.”

The inside of the home matches its exterior—more function than fashion. Well-loved furniture decorates the cozy sitting room, fabric worn soft with wear. Oliver settles down on a sofa, leaning back into the cushions while he waits for Wilson to arrive with their drinks. Music is playing softly somewhere on the upper floors, one of the bands Thea was fond of, and he can hear the pattering of footsteps as Connor and Joe race around the house. He shouldn’t be as relaxed as he is, being in an unfamiliar setting, but something about the atmosphere has all but put him at ease. It’s only a minute before a mug appears in his peripheral vision.

“So, do you always dress for success?” Wilson asks with a wry smile, gesturing to Oliver’s suit as he drops into a nearby armchair.

“Oh, no,” Oliver scoffs, “I have an event to attend after this. My step-father’s stock auction.”

“Seems we’ve done both you and Connor a favor by taking him for the night. Can’t imagine that would be a fun situation for either of you.”

Oliver gives the man his most sincere smile over the rim of his mug. Wilson has no idea. Having learned that Floyd Lawton, the Vigilante’s latest target, was targeting the Unidac buyers had set him on edge. He had enough people to worry about without the added pressure of fretting over his son’s safety, as Moira would have surely insisted upon his attendance. The invitation had been very much welcome surprise.

“Have you lived in Starling long, Mr. Wilson?” Oliver asks, redirecting the conversation, as he can’t think of anything to else to say on the previous matter without raising suspicions.

“Slade, please. And no, we haven’t. Just moved here a bit ago. Yourself?”

“Born and raised.”

He leaves out the part about his time on Lian Yu. Anybody who’s anybody in Starling knows of Oliver’s miraculous return from the grave. He can see the curiosity behind Slade’s eyes—who didn’t want to know how a spoiled billionaire survived so long on his own?—but is pleasantly surprised when the other man seems to take Oliver’s silence on the matter as a sign of discomfort and doesn’t press further. Slade simply picks his own mug up from its place on the coffee table and considers it for a moment.

Just in time, it seems, as Connor and Joe choose that moment to race through the room, knocking into the aforementioned table as they go. The two men allow the conversation to lapse in favor of watching the boys, wearing matching pleased expressions. Oliver thinks that he could perhaps get used to this. There’s a domesticity about it that reminds him of his time before the Gambit, when everything was still right in his world. Slade’s attention returns to him only a moment after the kids have left their view. Oliver can hear their steps as they race back up the stairs to the second story.

“It’s good to see Joe making friends. He’s not the most sociable kid, and I’ve had to move us pretty frequently for my job these past few years.”

“What do you do?”

“Private security. Just landed a more permanent gig here, so it looks like we’ll be here a while.”

Talking is unexpectedly easy. Maybe it’s the sense of kinship that comes with parenthood, or the respect that comes with learning of the other man’s military history. Maybe it’s just the fact that they’ve been texting since the night he’d received the other man’s number. Whatever it is, Oliver finds that he quite enjoys learning about Slade Wilson. Australian, three kids, divorced. His daughter teases him about the grey in his hair, but he’s never seen the problem with it. Oliver stores all the new information in a file marked _important_ , and offers information on himself in kind. His history, his plans for the club, even about his struggle reconnecting with his family after his time away. Eventually, when they run out of relevant topics, they shift to small talk about the weather and the news. Both seem to be hesitant about ending the moment.

Eventually, however, Oliver has to go. A glance at his watch reveals that he has stayed longer than he intended, leaving only just enough time to retrieve his gear before he had to head to the auction. He excuses himself, and Slade walks him to the door.

“We should do this again sometime.” Slade says softly, offering a hand.

“Sounds good.” Oliver accepts the handshake, grip lingering a little longer than is necessary, but should the other comment he can blame it on his time in isolation. “And if Connor needs anything, or if something comes up-”

“I’ll let you know.”

So lost they were in their earlier conversation that neither man had noticed that the music upstairs had stopped playing, nor heard the creaking of footsteps when someone descends the stairs. Rose had peeked her head into the living room, seeing the men talking, before quickly slipping out the front door. She was dialing before she even hit the driveway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UUUUGH I'm so iffy on this chapter. Sorry if it was bad. If you've read anything else by me, you know my comfort zone is crushing these character's feelings under my heel. I don't do the happy thing very often. I rewrote this like 3 times. Did it flow ok? Was it weird? I feel like it was weird.


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rolls around in the gossip and angst*  
> Ah yes, this is definitely more my scene.

“You are not going to believe who’s at my house,” Rose starts unceremoniously as soon as the call is picked up.

On the other end of the line, Thea is holding the phone to her ear while she rustles through the selection of dresses her mother had brought to choose from for the auction that evening. The day had been… surprisingly ok. Sure she was technically grounded, but she and Moira had seemed to have started the process of putting the demons between them to rest. It felt surprisingly good. Plus, she’d given her permission to hang out with Rose the next day as a reward for attending the auction.

“Who?”

“Your brother.” Rose all but squeals.

“And?” Thea drawls, making sure to convey how thoroughly unimpressed she is by this information. “He said he was dropping Connor off there earlier. Joe invited him for a sleepover or whatever.”

“Oliver was in the living room. Talking. With Slade.” The other teen sounds almost offended, like Thea is missing something obvious. Thea can easily imagine the flailing hand gestures that Rose must be making while she talks. Talking with Rose in person brought with it the danger of bodily harm if you weren’t paying attention to what those hands were doing. “My dad made him _coffee_.”

“So what, Rose? Maybe your dad just decided to not be an anti-social jerk for once.”

“Slade never invites anybody in for coffee unless he’s after something. And he was definitely after something.”

“Maybe they’re starting a club for socially-inept, single dads.” Sarcasm. Chew on that, Rose.

“Thea, sweetheart, I have lived with that man for most of my seventeen years. And while your faith in my father’s intentions is noble, I have to be honest with you. That face? He was _this_ _close_ to eating your brother alive.”

“ _Rose_!” Thea crows in mock scandal, finally settling on her dress. “Listen, I have to get ready for Walter’s stock auction. We can finish discussing your dad’s predatory intentions toward Ollie when we hang out tomorrow.”

“You’ll see, Thea Queen. You’ll see.”

The line goes dead, and Thea wanders into the bathroom to get ready. This was definitely one of Rose’s more… interesting… theories, but from what she knew about Slade Wilson’s behavior, maybe the other teen wasn’t so far off the mark. She’d have to try and pry some information out of Ollie at the auction.

Oliver arrives with no time to spare, gear stashed safely away in a camera-blind zone. Floyd Lawton will get what’s coming to him. First things first, find Moira and Walter. It’s easy enough—his mother has always been good at appealing to the crowds. She and Walter are surrounded by their usual posse of wealthy acquaintances, doing their expected round of greetings and small talk. Thea trailed after them, looking slightly put-off by the entire affair. Her eyes light up at the sight of her brother approaching, though. She breaks away from the crowd and skips up to him, looping an arm through his and dragging him in the opposite direction of where he wanted to be. Diggle trails after them at a respectful distance.

“Thea,” Oliver hisses, growing more agitated the further from Walter and Moira they get, “what are you doing?” Even his best attempts to dislodge his sister have fallen short, the girl simply tightening her grip as she pulls him along.

“I heard you had _coffee_ with _Mr. Wilson_ ,” she almost purrs, to Oliver’s confusion.

“And? So what if I did?” It comes out gruffer than he intended.

“Oh my god!” Thea spins him to face her, grip locking around his forearms. “Spill it! Tell me everything!”

“There’s nothing to tell. It was just coffee.”

“Oh, please. Come on! What was he like? What did you talk about? I need the details!”

“He was nice. We talked about dad stuff. That’s it.” He watches over her shoulder as Quinten arrests the man that hired Lawton. “We should really get back to mom and Walter.”

Thea is wearing an impressive pout, obviously displeased with his unwillingness to gossip. And while she’s always taken an interest in his companions, she’s never been _this_ persistent about getting the details. He doesn’t know if this is some misguided attempt to reconnect after his time away, or if something else has gotten into her. Whatever it is, he doesn’t have the time or the energy to deal with it. He needs to be focused on finding Lawton’s vantage point before any of the bidders are killed.

As if on cue, a shot rings out. Detective Lance knocks Walter out of the way, the stray bullet instead hitting a waiter. Diggle is at the siblings’ side in an instant. Oliver watches Lance usher Walter and Moira towards an exit, and breathes a sigh of relief despite the bodies dropping around them. He shoves Thea towards the bodyguard and instructs the man to get her out of there. They both protest separating, but Oliver is already slipping into the panicked crowd, heading to retrieve his gear. He’d seen where the shots came from, he had a good idea of Lawton’s vantage point. Now it was only a matter of dealing with the man.

A matter that is apparently easier said than done. The fight itself is not overly difficult, Lawton is a sniper and obviously unfamiliar with close combat. Oliver lands an arrow through the man’s eyepiece with minimal effort. It’s what comes after that turns his night to hell. He spins on the spot when a groan sounds behind him, bow drawn and prepared to put down a threat. But it’s not a threat—it’s John Diggle, the bodyguard. The stupid bodyguard that had apparently chased after him and got hit by a ricocheting bullet some time during Oliver’s fight with Lawton. He rushes to the man’s side, slinging one of Dig’s arms around his shoulder, and begins his escape from the scene.

There really isn’t anywhere else to take Dig but the Foundry. The curare that laced Lawton’s bullets would undoubtedly be kicking in soon, making hospitals out of the question. They would never be able to identify and treat the poison in time. Yao Fei’s herbs are the only option. He swings Diggle up onto a cold, metal table and sets to work preparing the herbs. Dig is obviously put off by their taste—Oliver still hates the flavor, after all these years—but obediently swallows it down before he falls unconscious, apparently aware that the Vigilante is trying to help him. Oliver fishes the bullet out of Diggle’s shoulder while the man is unconscious and stitches him back up. Afterwards, he settles down on a nearby stool and begins the agonizing process of waiting for the other man to wake. Oliver can only hope Diggle is as receptive to his proposal as Oliver wants him to be.


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter in the lobby of an auto repair shop while I waited for somebody to come pick me up because, as I was driving home from my summer job Friday, my car's transmission blew out on the interstate. I'm now the owner of a conveniently car-shaped pile of scrap metal. So yea, this chapter is short and bad but I need to get the plot moving so I'm posting it anyways. Sorry.

John Diggle is less than thrilled with Oliver’s offer. In fact, Oliver may go as far as to say that Dig is _repulsed_ by the idea of partnering with Starling City’s resident vigilante. He calls him crazy, a criminal, a murderer. Takes a few swings at him. It hurts more than Oliver would care to admit that he has to watch Diggle walk away. He’d had an eye on the man since his hiring. A history in the military, the unsolved murder of his brother, a desire to protect that kept him in the private sector despite his obvious distaste for the clientele. He’d been _so sure_ that Dig would be up to the challenge of cleaning up the city. Apparently, he’d miscalculated.

The night only goes downhill from there. Upon arriving home, he’s confronted by Laurel, who has a number of choice words for his actions that evening. His collection of adjectives grows with the addition of selfish and self-centered. Laurel suggests that he try caring about the lives of others, and it’s only the time spent under Amanda Waller’s thumb that keeps him from sending back some snide remark. She hadn’t tolerated his snarky retorts—lacked the capacity for banter, unlike his island companions—and he’d soon learned when to keep his mouth shut.

Thankfully Thea is there when the woman finally takes her leave, running a soothing hand over his shoulder while he internally bemoans his inability to just tell everyone the _truth_. But he can’t risk his crusade like that, not for his own comforts. He had promises to keep, and he couldn’t if he’s locked up in prison or a psych ward.

“Oh, Mr. Wilson called a little while ago.” Thea says as she pulls away. “He couldn’t get a hold of you. Apparently the shooting was on the news and Connor’s pretty freaked. You should give them a call now that you’re home. Let them know you’re ok.”

“Sure thing,” Oliver says with more grimace than grin. He’s not particularly interested in sitting through another lecture on his irresponsibility. Especially from a man he doesn’t know well. But once the idea is there, to check on the state of his son, it crawls like an itch under his skin. So he’s slipping upstairs without acknowledging the remainder of the household, silently praying that Thea would cover for him while he made his phone call.

Wilson’s number had been added to his speed-dial the day Connor’s sleepover had been arranged. He answers on the third ring.

“And here I thought you might be dead,” Slade says in place of a formal greeting, tone more teasing than accusatory.

“Was stuck in the building,” he lies, “the bodyguard thought it might be best to try and wait the shooter out.”

“Sounds miserable. Calling to check on your boy?”

“Wanted to make sure he was ok. I know it’s late…”

“It’s alright,” Slade reassures, “I was up anyways. The kids were already out by the time the news started playing. He’s fine.”

Oliver is sure his relieved sigh is audible on the other side of the line. “Thank you,” he says meaningfully.

“No problem, kid.” There’s something in Slade’s tone that’s softer than Oliver’s accustomed to, but he passes it off as a friend’s concern. “You want to swing by and pick him up tonight?”

“I’ll let him sleep and get him in the morning, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Goodnight, Slade.”

Slade holds the phone to his ear until the line goes dead from the other side, clutching at it as he tries to sort through the cacophony of emotion boiling under his skin. Worry, anger, and something startlingly similar to affection. He pockets the phone and makes his way the short distance down the hall from his bedroom to Joe’s, where both boys are sleeping peacefully. The television in his own room is still playing the news, though by this point most of the pertinent details have already been covered. He can just hear it over the soft sounds of the boys’ breathing. It’s easier to think here, in the dark, where he can keep a watchful eye over his charges for the evening.

The news had reported, just before Oliver’s call, that the sniper had been identified as Floyd Lawton, codename Deadshot, an ex-military man now supporting himself as a gun for hire. A significant amount of sniper’s blood had been found at his perch, but the lack of a body suggested that the man himself had gotten away. Since the officers hadn’t arrived at the scene until after Lawton had escaped, Slade could only assume that the cause of the man’s injuries was the local vigilante. He supposes that he should thank the man for that, should they ever cross paths.

Slade isn’t averse to killing, and as a mercenary himself he has little right to judge Lawton’s life choices once he’d left the military, but the vigilante’s timely interference had likely saved the lives of Oliver Queen and his family… And of course all the other suits at the party. They are not nearly as important, however, the sparing of their lives inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. Slade would love to go out tonight, to don the mask calling to him from the safe in his closet, and take down Floyd Lawton for his trespasses while he’s still weak. Fortunately for Deadshot, Deathstroke had a more important mission to complete that evening: ensuring the safety of the two young boys sleeping peacefully. Oliver would pick his son up in the morning, and then Slade could get to work tracking down the sniper.


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Season 2 plot. Goodbye S1. Nice knowing you.

The weeks following the Unidac auction shooting are spent solidifying Slade’s new routine. Get back from the docks, drop Joe at school, breakfast with Oliver if they run into each other on the way in (Slade’s getting better at timing the traffic so they arrive near simultaneously), before returning home to get some sleep. Four hours usually, five if he’s lucky. The remaining time before he has to pick Joe up from school is spent tracking down the whereabouts of one Floyd Lawton. It’s an arduous process. It doesn’t matter how many contacts he calls, how many favors he cashes in, or how many people he threatens. Nobody knows what happened to the sniper after his conflict with the Hood. He has really and truly disappeared. He inevitably spends the afternoons wearing a hole in the carpet with his pacing. Once the kids are home, it’s dinner and homework and bedtime stories. Maybe a few texts from Oliver here and there, or a phone call from Conner detailing the events of his after-school hours to an enthralled Joe. And once everyone is settled in for the night, he collects his weapons and uniform from the safe and heads down to the docks.

The approaching winter brings a chill that settles with the night. Where before Slade could settle somewhere high and watch the yard from his perch, the brisk weather forces him to keep moving. Leaping from crate to crate, scaling walls and fences, anything to keep the cold at bay with the added bonus of a more thorough patrol than those he had been on before. He is, however, careful to keep away from the dock’s more active areas. Slade had never bothered to ask what it was that his employer had him guarding, but it doesn’t take a genius to guess that a man wealthy and paranoid enough to hire someone of Deathstroke’s caliber is up to something less than legal.

Since his first sighting of the Hood, business at the docks had increased dramatically. Where before he’d only had to steer clear of the maintenance or construction men that were always tinkering with something, it was now a veritable hive of activity. He’d stop to watch, on occasion, as people ran boxes this way and that in the distance. Sometimes he would hear his employer barking orders, but they made little sense to him out of context. The vigilante had been seen in the area several times, chasing his latest drug dealing or mob associated victim, but never ventured close enough to warrant interference.

It seems that tonight, though, that was about to change. He’s patrolling the dock’s perimeter when he sees it, a flash of movement, from the corner of his eye. Barely distinguishable from the night’s deep shadow. For a moment, Slade believes he may have imagined it, so desperate for a break in the monotony that he’s creating illusionary enemies to fight. But then a passing floodlight sweeps over the figure, illuminating the green-hooded vigilante for just long enough for Slade to believe that this was real. A smirk crawls its way across his face as he begins his pursuit. If the vigilante thought he could stick his nose into Slade’s employer’s business without facing any consequences, he was in for a surprise.

The weeks following the Unidac auction shooting are spent testing the boundaries of Oliver’s new routine. Get back from the Foundry, get Conner to school, breakfast with Slade when their paths cross (Oliver is beginning to suspect the frequent coincidences are more design than fate), before grabbing a few fretful hours of sleep. The island still haunts him in his nightmares, dragging up the unpleasant memories he worked so hard to bury. When he finally can’t force himself to rest any more, he heads to the club for a few hours to supervise before picking Conner up from school. Then dinner, homework, and the bedtime routine. He’d text Slade sporadically, and sometimes Conner would be able to beg him into a phone call. Then, when Conner was settled, he’d head back to the club and gear up.

Oliver isn’t stupid. The nights he spends under the hood are becoming longer and longer, cutting further and further into his time with his son. The excuses for his sudden disappearances are getting weaker and weaker. Eventually, something was going to happen and the tension hanging over the Queen manor would come to a head. His only saving grace is John Diggle, who after a bit of coercion, had finally accepted Oliver’s offer. When he’s running late, Diggle would pick up the slack; waking Conner and beginning the morning routine for when Oliver finally arrived.

Attention is first brought to the upswing of deaths by the docks when an addict was discovered dead by supposed overdose in an alley. That, on its own, is far from suspicious. Addicts die every day in Starling. What draws Oliver to investigate is the persistence of a young, homeless girl named Sin that claimed the boy had been clean before the incident occurred. She goes so far as to convince Roy, Thea’s latest love interest, and consequently his sister herself. If there really is something suspicious about the boy’s death, Oliver can’t have his sister or her friends getting involved.

Breaking into the police department is easy enough. Despite their various upgrades in security since the last time he helped himself to the evidence locker, they are still woefully underequipped to handle as skillfully trained an agent as Oliver. He rifles through boxes of files until he comes across the folder he wants. It’s one of the thinnest in the box, unsurprising for a case believed to be open and shut. The medical examiner had ruled the boy’s death suicide by overdose, and for just a moment Oliver believes that Sin may have been mistaken. That perhaps the girl’s mind was so clouded by grief that she couldn’t accept what had really happened. As he moves to close and replace the file, a picture of the crime scene slips from it and flutters to the floor. Oliver bends to retrieve it, only to freeze halfway bent.

Nausea crashes over him as he takes in the details. The boy, sprawled over top of a stack of crisp white trash bags, syringe in hand. Blood trickles from the boy’s tear ducts, sending Oliver’s heart up his throat. And suddenly, wish a rush of unpleasant memories, Oliver knows that Sin was right. That this boy’s death wasn’t caused by an accidental overdose. There was something going on down at the docks, right under Oliver’s nose, and he needed to know what. Snatching the picture from the tile and stuffing it back in its rightful place, he slips from the evidence locker and back out of the station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Meet Cute Round 2


	8. Chapter 7

It was apparently obvious that Slade had noticed the bruise blossoming over Oliver’s cheekbone, despite the too-light concealer he’d borrowed from Thea’s makeup collection earlier that morning. Others had noticed it as well, Oliver isn’t naïve enough to think otherwise, but at least they’d adhered to the social norm of pretending they hadn’t. Slade, on the other hand, had spent the better part of their breakfast scowling at it. Or rather, the better part of _Oliver’s_ breakfast. Slade had been so absorbed in trying to scare away the purple-black mark marring Oliver’s skin that he’d barely eaten or even said anything. The conversation they’d managed had been jilted and awkward, like the other man was biting back the question he obviously wanted to ask. Eventually, the silence becomes too oppressive in the face of their usual banter.

“What?” Oliver huffs, even though he already knows the answer.

After another moment of that godawful silence, Slade points across the table with his fork at the offending purplish splotch. “Who did that you?”

“This?” Oliver asks in mock surprise, prodding the bruise with a finger and immediately having to stifle the regretful flinch. “It’s nothing. Old friend and I got in an argument, is all. I can be a little hot-tempered, sometimes.” At Slade’s unimpressed look, he hastily adds, “We’re cool, now.”

Slade hums in a decidedly noncommittal matter, and if he questions the validity of Oliver’s story, keeps it to himself. Instead, the fork in his hand is dropped unceremoniously to the table and the plate of nearly untouched food pushed away. The question is not even out of Oliver’s mouth when he growls “Not hungry,” and pushes away from the table. “Late for a meeting anyhow. I’ll call you later.”

And Oliver is left to finish his meal, alone except for the sinking feeling in his gut that tells him this is far from over.

The dock had been a bad idea. No, rushing _blindly_ to the docks had been the BAD idea. Because yes, he needed to know what was happening, what was leaving Mirikuru-esque victims in the streets, but there were probably a dozen better ways to have gone about it. He’d assumed he’d be safe in the cover of darkness; that his speed and strength would protect him from whatever potential threats arose. He’d been wrong, and now he could hear that nagging voice in the back of his mind, warning him from days long past.

_Never assume anything about your opponent, Queen._

Prowling through aisles of shipping containers, dispatching witnesses as he goes, he doesn’t hear the real danger until it’s upon him. The heavy _thump_ of combat boots directly behind him draws his attention away from the unconscious guard whose pockets he’d been rifling through. He barely catches the familiar flash of a blade, leaving him just enough time to dive out of the way. Even still, he can feel the displaced air as the strike comes far too close for comfort.

Whirling on his opponent once he’s managed to scramble a relatively safe distance away, a challenge unto itself after the ambush, Oliver finds himself face to face with a figure in a black and orange mask. It doesn’t process immediately, though in hindsight it probably should, his attention drawn away to cataloguing the rest of his opponent. Two swords, several firearms, and what looked like the charges for potential explosives on a belt. Extra rounds strapped to his chest. All in all, a rather intimidating sight.

“The Starling City Vigilante,” his opponent rumbles, voice distorted by the metal of his mask, “and here I was beginning to think you would never be paying me a visit.”

“Had I known there was anyone to visit, I would have dropped by sooner.”

And it’s the truth. He’d worked in this area dozens of times since his return, but had never once suspected foul play. It’s a bit of a blow to his ego. Here he’d been thinking he might actually be doing some good, and the biggest threat of all was lurking right under his nose.

“I’m sure,” his opponent growls, and promptly launches himself at Oliver.

The following fight is swift and brutal, devolving into a full on fistfight once they’ve managed to knock each other’s weapons away. His opponent seems unwilling to draw the firearms he possesses, likely having orders to bring the vigilante in alive should he be caught lurking, and the chance of a stray bullet doing more damage than intended is far too high in their close-quarter combat. There is something… familiar about his fighting style, though. Something that tugs at the back of Oliver’s mind, distracting him from the fight. While it might not be much, it’s _enough_. The masked man lands a lucky blow to his chest, followed quickly by a leg that sweeps Oliver’s feet out from under him in his unbalance. Oliver is sent sprawling to the dirt, and looking up at his opponent, he can’t help but feel like he’s back on Lian Yu. He can’t help but think back on long days in the island sun, getting the crap beat out of him by his mentor.

And that’s when it _clicks_. The fighting style, the mask. It seems familiar because it _is_.

“Billy?” He chokes out in disbelief, starting wide-eyed at the man who towers above him.

And the masked man hesitates. His surprise, the genuine shock in his eyes, allows just enough time for Oliver to leap to his feet and knock the man away.

By the time Slade gets back to his feet, the Starling City vigilante has vanished, and he’s left with nothing but an aching body covered in bruises and a deep sense of unsettlement over this latest turn of events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chill the fuck out, Slade. Maybe you should stop beating Oliver up if you don't want him covered in bruises, ok?
> 
>  
> 
> Also, since I haven't mentioned it before, you can find me over at glaregryphon.tumblr.com if you feel like hanging out and chatting about Slade being a little shit or whatever.


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had planned for this to go up Thursday Night/Friday Morning but I caught the flu going around on campus and spent the better part of Thursday worshiping the porcelain gods and Friday at the DMV. Sorry.

Step, step, step, turn.

Step, step, step, turn.

Step, step, step, turn.

The Wilson children watch their father pace the kitchen in slow, measured strides. If not for the way his right hand trembled at his side, nearly imperceptible to those outside of the immediate family, one might think the man was working off the effects one too many cups of his dark, bitter coffee.

“We should have left for the park fifteen minutes ago,” Rose says, eyeing the clock on the microwave apprehensively. Something was off this morning, just like something had been off every morning, every moment really, since their father had come home a few days prior covered in cuts and bruises and cursing the Staring City Vigilante. “We’re never going to get there on time now. Traffic’s miserable in the mornings.”

“We’re not going today,” Slade growls, gaze flickering up from the tile to the children for just a moment before returning to the floor. “Oliver called. Conner’s sick. Going to try for next week.”

Oh yes, all was most certainly not well in the Wilson household. They’d had the Saturday get-together on the calendar for weeks. Grant had even managed to take off work in order to attend. There was no way something as insignificant as a sniffle would be able to dissuade Slade’s slow (agonizingly slow, if you asked Rose’s opinion) courting of Oliver Queen. If they couldn’t meet for something as rowdy as the afternoon of outdoor play and picnicking that they’d had planned, Slade should have suggested a tamer alternative. His apathy was the final tell the children had been searching for. Something had thrown a significant wrench in the plan, and they were determined to get to the bottom of it.

All it takes is a minute nod from Rose to have Grant pushing away from the table, catching their father’s attention with a sharp clearing of his throat. Slade ceases in his pacing momentarily.

“We were thinking that we would go out,” Grant says, scooping a pouting Joe into his arms as Rose hastened to join him on her feet. “I’ve got the day off anyways and it’s be a shame to waste it when the weather’s so nice.”

 Slade eyes them skeptically, but whatever’s bothering him must be something serious because he fails to see through the weak ruse. “Sure,” he grunts. “Just be back before dark.”

Curfew on a weekend. Something else added to the upset in their world.

“Sure, dad.” Grant says with a smile that’s probably more pained than he intended. Slade fails to notice that, too. They can’t get out the door and into Grant’s car fast enough.

 --

“Rose,” Thea answers the phone with the haste of a typical teenager, the device near inseparable from her hand. “I didn’t expect to hear from you today.”

 “Really?”

“Yea. Oliver told me Slade called earlier and told him Joe was sick or something?”

“Did he now?” Rose says suspiciously.

“Yea. Huge bummer. Conner and I were looking forward to today. Got up early to make sandwiches and everything.”

There’s a clattering of dishes on the other end of the line, lending credit to Thea’s statement. Rose glances over the center console at Grant, who’s been listening to the conversation via speakerphone, but has thus far remained silent. His eyes are on the road, but there’s a distinct crinkle to his forehead that means he’s unhappy. When she turns to look at Joe, he’s wearing an expression that matches Grant’s.

“How is Joe, by the way?” Thea asks.

“He’s just fine.” Rose sniffs. “Slade told us _Conner_ was sick, and that’s why we weren’t going today.”

Thea’s silent for a moment. “...What?”

“That’s what I was wondering. Did something happen between dad and Oliver that I don’t know about?”

“I have no idea,” Thea admits, puzzled. “Oliver didn’t seem to find anything suspicious about it. He was just as down about the cancellation as Conner and I were.”

 Rose chews her lip, considering for a moment, before finally sighing. “We’ll figure it out. Hey, we were going to head to the park anyways, since Grant has the day off and everything. You and Conner want to join us?” They hadn’t really been headed anywhere just yet, simply cruising along until a plan of action could be made. The more Rose thought on it, though, the more the idea of spending the day in the comfort of friends sounded appealing. Grant seemed to agree because their route changed at the next light, heading in the direction of their destination. “You can bring all those sandwiches.”

 It’s a relief to be able to set aside the concern for just a while. One of the Queen’s drivers drops the siblings off shortly after the Wilsons arrive, each with their arms full of various picnicking supplies. Oliver, is seems, will be too busy moping over the cancelled plans to notice their absence any time soon. The weather is perfect; warm, with just enough of a breeze to keep the sunlight from becoming stifling. Thea and Rose lay spread out on a classic checkered blanket beneath a shade tree, watching as Grant chases the younger boys around the field. They’ll tire eventually, collapse onto the blanket, and devour the truly impressive pile of sandwiches Thea had brought. For now, however, the girls are content to just lay back and listen to the soft music playing from Rose’s phone, occasionally pointing out a strangely shaped cloud or giggle at the boys’ antics. It’s not the way they had intended the day to go, but it’s certainly not a bad way to spend it.

“You think we’ll figure out what’s going on with them?” Thea eventually works up the courage to ask.

Rose smiles reassuringly. “Definitely.”

They lapse into silence once more, basking in the peace of the afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Calm before the storm kinda-filler chapter. Wanted to give the kids a break before shit gets seriously angsty.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N 1: I was appalled that there was no single dads fics for this pair laying around, so here's this. This fic will be roughly following the events of S2, but we're going to pretend S1 never happened. Ok cool.  
> Thanks for reading!


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